


The Missing Lay

by SwansQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Drunken Shenanigans, Good Friend Anathema Device, Historical, Historical References, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I am a nerd and do not apologize, Implied Relationships, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Nerdiness, Pining, Some amount of pining, Tags Are Hard, The Poetic Edda, Wine, go anathema, yes I wrote a fic explaining some missing poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwansQuill/pseuds/SwansQuill
Summary: Anathema won't let Aziraphale forget that one time Crowley spilled wine all over his manuscripts, even centuries later. And let's just say, because of that reminder, Crowley will be in the doghouse until Christmas.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The Missing Lay

**Author's Note:**

> So I had a conversation with a friend, and I also happen to be reading some old poetry, and I think too much about Good Omens... sue me.
> 
> But yes, I did just write a fanfiction blaming Crowley for the fact that, in the Poetic Edda, we only have a small part of the Long Sigurth Lay. But what Good Omen's fan doesn't blame every historical mess-up on one of these two? In the very least, not me.
> 
> So yeah, I will not pretend like this is the epitome of fanfiction and not just 2400 words expanding on a random nerd thought, because that's exactly what this is. Read if you're curious, I guess?
> 
> (Also, note, I did no research except reading the Poetic Edda in the first place for writing this fic, so details may be wrong for the time period. I did my best, but again, this was completely random.)

In his over two hundred years of owning his bookshop, Aziraphale had received maybe half a dozen packages. Two-thirds of those packages had been unmarked by address or postage and miracled onto his desk, and had been from Crowley when he was on duty and unable to deliver them himself. The remainder had consisted of one wrong address (which he had promptly delivered to the nice woman across the street from him) and a precious manuscript from the continent he’d been carefully tracking and bargaining for over mail for quite some time.

Unlike all of those, this package had been wrapped messily in bright red and green wrapping paper beneath its cardboard box and was accompanied by a card marked with neat cursive loops. It radiated enough fondness to definitely be from a friend, and enough occult energy that it wasn’t from any ordinary human but definitely not from Crowley himself (as if the demon would wrap anything up that colorfully, or write so neatly). Feeling this, Aziraphale smiled, already anticipating the sender before he tilted the card towards him to read.

_ Merry Christmas! Not sure if we’re doing gifts, but I assume that being an angel you can miracle one onto my table should you not have sent anything, so whatever. Anyway, Crowley told me the other day that I should never, under any circumstances get this for you - so here it is! (He was blushing and stuttering as he said, it, so I may have assumed he meant the opposite ;) )  _

_ Btw, please miracle up a few gifts for the Them. There are NO stores in this little town. Pepper wants a knife. _

_ Thxs, _

_ Anathema _

Smiling a bit (or smirking, depending on who you asked), Aziraphale walked over to his desk and put the note down, careful not to lose it or let it blow away as he moved to unwrap the package. He made quick work of it, not bothering to avoid tearing the cheerful wrapping paper that seemed about twice as large as the actual package (a book, by the feel of it, much to Aziraphale’s delight).

As he opened it, Aziraphale furrowed his brow and looked down at the book.

_ The Poetic Edda, The Heroic Poems _ , translated by Henry Adams Bellows. It was a simple, modern paperback copy, which had a plain brown cover that had two little Norse figures on the front - nothing he would usually collect or keep in his shop. But, checking the clock, he could see that Crowley wouldn’t be back for hours (“Demonic business,” he’d said quickly as he slipped out, completely ignoring Aziraphale’s protest of, “But Hell doesn’t give you assignments anymore, dear!”), and he hadn’t actually read the modern English collection (or really, any collection) of the Eddic poems for quite some time.

Not since he copied it, of course, but the fact that he was the scribe who had put together the original  _ Codex Regius _ never deterred him from reading the works based off of it, including the various translations.

It couldn’t do any harm to sit down and read it for a bit. And then maybe he could figure out where Anathema had ever gotten the idea that Crowley didn’t want him reading it… 

An odd statement, that was. After all, he didn’t remember Crowley having much to do with the composition of the  _ Codex _ , aside from that one night he came over with a bottle of wine…

Frowning uncertainly, Aziraphale opened the book and began to read. 

* * *

Page 150: “Brot af Sigurtharkvithu - Fragment of a Sigurth Lay… The gap of eight leaves in the  _ Codex Regius _ is followed by a passage of twenty stanzas which is evidently the end of a longer poem, the greater part of it having been contained in the lost section of the manuscript.”

_ What? _ Aziraphale’s jaw dropped slightly.  _ That shouldn’t be there, _ he thought, flipping messily through the later pages.  _ No, no, I distinctly recall that here is where the Long Sigurth Lay went… _

_ Oh no.  _ Blinking wildly, Aziraphale suddenly remembered the night that Crowley had sauntered in, waving a bottle of wine temptingly.  _ That demon…  _

* * *

_ 1272, Iceland~ _

He’d been working as a scribe in Iceland for some time, copying the many vibrant and complex works of poetry and even prose recited to him by the native people. It was good work, even if it may have been technically encouraging paganism and the only cuisine they had was fish (the fermented skate had officially become the only food so far that Aziraphale had realized he just  _ couldn’t _ eat). At least, though colder, Iceland was substantially less wet and damp than England. And the writing! Aziraphale quickly found himself consumed in copying it all by day and delving into new works by night. And in no country was it easier to set up his workspace so that it was just close enough to be able to pop into the village for some cake but just far enough that he could go weeks and never see anyone.

Suffice it to say, the angel was becoming quite partial to the little nordic nation. Looking back, if it wasn’t in the hope of a chance of catching a glimpse of a certain head of red hair established in England, then, well…

_ Best not to think about that. _

Especially not when alone in the middle of the countryside surrounded by books and wine.  _ Nope, no. _

So, that particular night, he was focused  _ completely _ on reading his most recently acquired saga (no thoughts of anyone or any demon ever crossing his mind). 

Until, of course, there was a loud banging on his door, and Aziraphale didn’t even have to check the presence or the face to know who it was. Definitely not grinning, he dropped his manuscript and called, “Just a moment!” before proceeding to shuffle around the room and procrastinate opening the door with enough fuss that his guest would know how busy and not desperate to see him Aziraphale truly was.

Yet, when he opened the door, he felt his eyes light up despite himself. “Crowley! What a surprise.”

“Angel,” the demon nodded, smirking and raising his eyebrows. “You didn’t sense me? I’ve been inching across this countryside for nearly a week.”

“Well, erm…” again, Aziraphale’s face acted of its own accord and decided that a furious blush was the best course of action (and without even consulting him!). “No? Should I have?” In truth, yes. He should have. But he’d actually been working very hard to  _ not _ give in to the urge to check where Crowley’s presence was every day or so, and had been quite successful at it until the demon actually showed up.

“Yes,” Crowley rolled his eyes, but it wasn’t without fondness. “I always know where  _ you _ are.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open at the same time Crowley seemed to realize what he’d said.

Reddening, the demon cleared his throat awkwardly. “Cause- um, you know, you’re, ngk, you’re bright. Loud. Like, you know, really, really hard to miss. Your presence, I mean, 'cause you’re an angel and… uh, yeah. Hard to, have to be an idiot to miss it.”

“Uh, thank you?” Aziraphale smiled slightly, though more so at the flustered expression that had ruined his friend’s facade than the words he had half said, mostly stuttered. “Would you like to come in?”

Pulling himself together, Crowley shook his head. “No, angel, I’d rather stay out here in the freezing cold and talk to you through the door.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, no need to be rude about it.”

“Does this look rude?” Crowley’s raised an eyebrow questioningly as he held up a slightly banged up looking bottle of wine.

“Did you…”

“Yup, brought it from down south. Nothing good to drink up here,” Crowley sniffed, then looked behind Aziraphale pointedly.

“And not much good to eat, either, I’m afraid,” the angel sighed in agreement, stepping aside from the threshold to allow Crowley to shuffle in. “Oh, please knock the snow off your boots, dear boy.”

“Yes sir!” the demon quipped mockingly, even as he dutifully knocked the snow off of his boots and then snapped his fingers to miracle them dry.

“I have a lot of writing in here, Crowley,” Aziraphale protested. “I don’t want it getting wet.”

“Of course not, that’d be a tragedy.”

Frowning, Aziraphale led the way into the small main room that was indeed filled to the brim with parchment and vellum. Behind him, the demon gaped at it all, eyes running over the writing just slow enough that he could appreciate its volume, but fast enough that it was clear he wasn’t interested in the quality of the works.

“Angel,” he said, stopping in the front of the room. Before him Aziraphale busied himself with clearing some space, carefully picking up manuscripts to free up a second chair for Crowley and then hastily restacking them, fussing about the placement as the demon looked on.

“Yes, dear?”

“You need…”

Finally, Aziraphale put down the last of the manuscripts and turned to face Crowley. “I need?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking at the demon’s dumbstruck expression.

“I don’t even know. A library, some buyers, or maybe a trash pit. But bless it, Aziraphale, you  _ have _ to get rid of some of this crap!”

“Excuse me, it’s not crap! It’s valuable literature, much of which is of my own compilation.”

“Whatever it is, it’s making it impossible to breathe in here.”

Aziraphale huffed. “We don’t need to  _ breathe _ .”

Crowley shrugged and walked over to Aziraphale’s desk where two cups had miraculously appeared. “You get the idea.”

“Yes, and I would politely disagree.”

“Just don’t get mad when I spill wine on one of your precious manuscripts,” the demon teased, sloshing the wine from side to side as he passed the angel his cup and delighting in the way Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he reached forward to grab it before his friend spilled anything.

“I make no promises,” the angel tutted, carefully gripping the cup with both hands as he sat down into his desk chair. “Some of these are  _ priceless _ , you know. I’m writing down stories that have been evolving orally for generations!”

“Are you really?” Crowley quirked an eyebrow, taking a sip of his wine as he sat into the chair the angel had haphazardly freed for him. At his statement (because, honestly, it couldn’t be called a question as not a single being in the room thought the demon was actually curious) Aziraphale brightened, nodding and putting aside his wine in favor of grabbing a nearby stack of vellum and holding it up to Crowley. The demon blinked, nodding along and pretending to be interested as the angel went off, losing himself in the drunken haze of the wine (which, somehow, never ran out) and the comforting ramble of his angel’s voice. Eventually, once he was drunk enough, he started responding, and soon the conversation drifted away from the angel’s dusty manuscripts to something more interesting.

(What was more interesting, you might ask? Neither angel nor demon could actually tell you, just as neither could explain the apparently hours’ worth of wine that existed in Crowley’s single bottle. They were both too drunk.)

But it must have been interesting because both of them remembered Crowley getting very worked up over it - whatever it was. Worked up enough that he even managed to stand up (still holding his wine glass) and stumble over to Aziraphale’s chair, slurring, “See, ‘tis ‘zactly me point! These, these people, and, and their cows, they-”

“Cows?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow, face the epitome of confusion as he stared at his reflection in his cup. “Dear, what cows?”

“Uh, th- the cows. You know, ah, here!” Grinning, the demon reached behind Aziraphale, stumbling slightly and almost colliding chest to chest with the angel. Breath catching, Aziraphale froze, his face reddening (from the lack of oxygen, maybe?) as Crowley’s face passed by his. When the demon pulled back, his eyes were mere inches away, and Aziraphale froze.

Then Crowley shoved a piece of vellum (the middle of a poem, likely also pulled from the middle of a stack to the angel’s disgruntlement) into the small space between them, and said proudly, “Cows.”

“Cows,” Aziraphale said slowly.

Crowley nodded, though it was only visible in the very top of his head that poked out above the sheet of vellum. “Exactly. Get my point yet?” Crowley lowered the sheet of vellum just to give the angel a hard stare.

“Uh, yes…” Aziraphale gulped, leaning away from the drunken demon in the hopes he would miss the loud thumping in his chest (what was the point of that, anyway? he didn’t need a heart). 

Suddenly the demon’s eyes widened, and swallowing loudly he stumbled back as if just realizing how close they were. “Ngk,” he grimaced, moving backward fast, the cup of wine sloshing precariously in his grip. “Goo- ah, fuck!”

“Crowley!”

The angel leapt forward, but it was too late. About half of the full cup rose in a wave over the lip as Crowley half-fell, half-stumbled back and down into his chair, rising briefly in the air only to fall with a sickening (to Aziraphale’s ears) splash across eight leaves of vellum, all laid out on the floor for proofreading. Like blood the wine sunk into the skin, staining it and blotching out or blurring with wet the neat ink letters of Aziraphale’s handwriting. The angel’s jaw dropped, and he nearly fell to his knees in his halfhearted attempt to somehow reach forward and catch the liquid mid-fall. Staring at the ruined manuscript pages, Crowley nervously looked up to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

His eyes were glowing a steely blue.  _ Oh fuck, you did it now, _ the demon winced _. _ Holding up a hand in surrender, Crowley quickly downed the rest of his wine, and then the rest of the bottle for good measure. Whether it was to keep it from spilling or to block out the yelling he was sure was about to start he never quite figured out.

* * *

Why did neither of them just miracle the wine away? Why hadn’t Aziraphale at least rewrite the ruined pages? To this day, the angel had no idea. In fact, pressing his mind hard, he could remember barely anything else from that night afterward except his rage and the image of Crowley fleeing into the dark, wintry night.  _ And now it’s too late, _ he thought, grimacing.

At just that moment the bell to the shop wrung, and Aziraphale felt a familiar presence walk in. By the time the demon had stepped into the backroom Azirphale was already up, shoving the offending page of the book into Crowley’s face just as he had done with that piece of vellum all those years ago.

“ _ You _ ,” he hissed.

“Huh?” Through his sunglasses, Aziraphale could see his partner’s confused gaze trail over the opening lines of the first paragraph. After just a few moments, his eyes widened. “Oh  _ fuck. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think he called Anathema from the couch late that night, and she just laughed at him. But who knows.


End file.
